Metroid: Sold Out
by No Laughing Matter
Summary: A retired, seventy something Samus Aran creates a popular weapons chain to continue paying her bills.


Managing the Troops 

During her career as a bounty hunter, Samus Aran was generally known two ways: favorably as a legendary warrior and part-time Galactic Messiah, and a smidgen less favorably as the Queen Bitch of the Universe™, though a Blizzard lawsuit finally prohibited any formal use of that. Over the years, she was given ample opportunity to fulfill both identities and was repeatedly called back to duty, at great cost to the Federation coffers. Eventually it was determined to be more cost effective to just place "Samus Aran fund" in the regular budget and pay her a salary. Some citizens were disgusted by such a pork barrel expenditure of taxpayer money, but the sight of the gold-and-red armor-clad figure that so brutally and enthusiastically cut down its opposition always endeared them. With dozens of jobs and two acts of genocide tucked safely under her belt—or as her fanboys preferred to imagine, stuffed snugly in her bra—the Hunter gained universal notoriety.

But it has been fifty years since she last marched into a den of bloodthirsty Space Pirates, armed with nothing but her wits, a state-of-the-art Chozo powersuit, and burning desire to inflict as much collateral damage as possible, and now all that is left of that life is memories. Time is merciless to even the strongest beings and once she began pushing seventy, our heroine also began the feel the strain of old age. Skin wrinkled, joints creaking, and breasts beginning to sag, Samus Aran announced her retirement to the universe. A party was thrown, good-byes were said, and schnapps were overindulged. Everyone gave their best wishes that Samus would succeed in her future endeavors, whether they be running for political office or owning a fish tank.

Yet Samus could not just enjoy the restful pleasures of retirement, voting regularly and fanatically supporting social security, while she let senility take over. Wasting her life in idle pursuits was simply out of the question. Deciding her experiences must be preserved for future generations, the Hunter committed her memoirs to paper. Soon, Shoot First, Ask Questions Later: The Samus Aran Story became the Holy Bible of any aspiring bounty hunter. And though the money garnered from the sales was impressive, surpassing those of even Harry Potter: The Vampire Chronicles 17, it gushed out of her bank account just as quickly as it came in. Old habits died hard, and shooting down every door she saw never entirely left Samus's system, despite her six figure monthly insurance bill.

Running out of money for rent, cigarettes, and blueberry schnapps, the Hunter desperately searched for a way to balance her spending. "Nonprofit" debt counseling unsuccessful, she began searching message boards for any ideas guaranteed to garner quick cash. Finding mostly "debates" on whether or not she got breast implants, Samus began to despair.

But then, a thread caught her eye: "I WAN 2 B LIKE SAMUS ARNA!1!11!"

An idea hit her like a runaway truck speeding down an icy mountain highway toward an unsuspecting group of illegal immigrants and their pet chihuahua that was a total accident I swear to God I just drank too much that night and I'm so sorry.

After taking a few business classes, the weapons chain "Aran Amok" was born. It became an instant success, with locations popping up all the way from Earth to Yavin 4. Spartan Supplies soon became a thing of the past, and Aran Amok controlled ninety percent of bounty-related business. Economic experts explained phenomenon as such: the founder of Aran Amok successfully completed two acts of genocide, while the founder of Spartan Supplies couldn't even finish one correctly.

And thus, we begin our tale…

"Welcome to Aran Amok," said Samus cheerfully, cringing at the name. It was one of those things she didn't approve of, but her advisors said would make the chain more popular: some garbage about the tough name attracting a younger demographic. "What would you like?"

The customer tried scratching his chin thoughtfully, but since he was clad in armor from head to toe, all he accomplished was an irritating grating noise as he struck his helmet.

"I'd like, um, four dozen missiles please."

Samus held back a laugh.

"Oh come on, it's not a matter of dick length. When you get right down to it, it's probably closer to compensation, actually. Why do you think I always carried so many?" She lowered her voice. "So how many can you _really_ carry?"

The customer stared at the ground shamefully. "Five," he whispered, choking back tears.

"No, I mean at _full_ capacity," Samus clarified. He continued staring at the ground. "Five at full capacity?" Samus said incredulously, "Oh you poor man."

She rang a bell in front of her and nothing happened. After waiting a few moments with no response, she picked up a microphone in front of her and flicked the switch on.

"Ernie!" her voice blared over the intercom. "Get your ass over here and get this man five missiles!"

"Hold on, Miss Aran!" Ernie yelled from the other end of the store. "The intercom is broke back here or something. I thought you said he wanted five missiles."

"I did," came Samus's voice again.

"Well does he want to top it off?"

"No, he's completely empty!"

"What?" Ernie yelled over the chortles of everyone in the store who could hear the exchange.

"Goddamnit, Ernie! I said this guy is running on empty and needs to fill up on missiles!" yelled Samus, getting annoyed.

"Well, how many does he need?" Ernie screeched back.

"Five!"

"How many?"

"Never mind, he just ran out crying."

Ernie finally reached the counter with five missiles cradled in his arms.

"Well, with only five missiles in his capacity, that doesn't surprise me."

"I sized him up to be more of a powerbomb man, really," Samus said, before hastily adding, "Not that there's anything wrong with that."

"Nothing at all," Ernie agreed quickly as he put the missiles on the counter. "I'd take these back, but I might as well keep them here in case somebody does need to top off their missile tank."

"Excuse me."

Samus and Ernie turned to the sound of the voice. A customer approached the counter meekly. Obviously a rookie, he still hadn't taken the cellophane layer off his visor.

"I- I- I," he began to stutter.

"Unless you're Scottish or we got moved to a navy ship the last time I got drunk," Samus looked at Ernie who shook his head, "Then just spit it out, man!"

"I don't know how to get my morph ball to work," the rookie said quietly.

"Jeebus, did you read the manual?" Ernie asked.

"Yeah, all it said to do was tap "down" twice. But all that happens is that I crouch. Like this, see?" The rookie crouched down and tried to roll into a ball a few times. After the third try, he gave up. "I'd like a refund, if you don't mind."

"You don't need a damn refund you need a-" Ernie swore, giving the crouched form a stiff kick. There was a sudden mechanical whir, and the rookie's body began to constrict into a ball. He began to scream as his bones broke and twisted upon themselves. After a minute of sickening crunches, his shrieking ceased and blood began to leak out of the balled-up armor onto the carpet.

Samus and Ernie stared at the mess.

"You know," Ernie began slowly. "We really should've seen that coming. This is, what, the fifth time?"

Samus shrugged.

"Something like that. We're not legally responsible. We have a disclaimer on the box and everything."

"Yeah… So why'd it happen this time, you think?"

"That guy wasn't limber enough, obviously. He should've taken yoga. It's in the manual. Isn't it?"

The two of them stood there for a few seconds, saying nothing.

"Damn shame about the carpet," Ernie finally observed.

"Yeah. Bleed somewhere else, asshole." Samus kicked the dead rookie's body and it rolled out through the automatic doors, leaving a trail of blood. "Shit."

Ernie sighed.

"I'll get the cleaner. He's on speed-dial, right? Three?"

"No, we moved him up to two after the last time."

"Won't the two guy get upset?"

"Not if we don't tell him, he won't."

Pulling out a bottle from under the counter, she took a swig of blueberry schnapps, replaced the bottle, and pulled a cigarette pack out of her front shirt pocket. She tapped one into her hand and discarded the now-empty box.

"Malcolm! Get your pasty white ass over here!"

A thin, mousy teenager with greasy black hair scurried over.

"What is it, Miss Aran?"

Samus blew a ring of smoke in his face, and he tried not to cough. Tried, and failed.

"Go down to the Quick Stop down the street and get me the cheapest full flavor box 100s they sell."

Malcolm visibly squirmed.

"But Miss Aran, they won't sell to me; I'm a minor."

"No, you're a _major_ pain in my ass. I said go to the Quick Stop and get me a fucking pack of cigarettes. And tell that Graves boy to not give me any of his responsibility bullshit or I'll come over there and stomp a mudhole in his ass. And he knows I'll do it, too."

She threw a small bundle of credits at Malcolm, who caught them perfectly and rushed out the door.

"Good help is so hard to find."

She took another drag of her cigarette.

"Miss Aran, Nick is here for his interview."

"Okay Ernie, I'll be with him in a second."

Samus put out her cigarette and slowly marched to the backroom, which would undoubtedly contain another smartass teenager trying to land a job at what they referred amongst themselves as the "sweetest place in town". She sighed. Where was Ridley when you needed him?

**Author's Notes:**

I'd like to thank Insomniac By Choice. This piece could not have been possible without him. He cleaned up every single damn thing and expanded on the jokes. I'll tell you this, dude: If I were gay, I'd make hot sweet love to you.

But you're going to have to settle for a handshake. Thanks. You've been a totally awesome editor.


End file.
